Sectumsempra
by Icarus Unbound
Summary: What Dark Magic has severed, cannot be reattached. A parable of alchemy. An tragedy of cause and effect, action and consequence. (Companion piece to "In Memoriam")
1. 1-1 Humpty Dumpty

1.1 Humpty Dumpty

 _\- 1981, Slytherin office, Hogwarts -_

An emerald inferno billowed ghoulishly in the fireplace, casting green-tinged shadows across the dull slate floor. They twisted and turned like ferocious demons or spirits in agony, until they finally coalesced into the shape of a human form. A cloaked man emerged from the dying flames. He stumbled on the threshold of the fireplace, but caught his balance in time by grabbing hold onto the side of the chimney. There he clung trembling, as if for life itself, his forehead pressed to the cold brickwork.

"Ah, my young friend has returned." The speaker was old man seated on one of the armchairs in the room. He looked comfortable, wrapped in a frightful mauve blanket. Two feet in bright green furry slippers were propped up on a footstool. A tattered book lay on his lap, its two open pages showing once-beautiful botanical drawings, now indignified with an excess of wordy graffiti by some prior inconsiderate reader.

The first man looked up sharply. As he did, the hood fell back from his face. Two feverish eyes fluttered like confused, dying moths in the bone-white pallor of his thin face - from the old man, to the familiar furniture, to the jar-lined walls of his quarters. They finally focused onto his visitor, then onto the book on his visitor's lap. His pale lips twisted with displeasure as he pulled himself upright. "Headmaster."

"What happened? You don't look well." The old man closed the book and balanced it on the threadbare armrest. He dropped his feet from the footstool, his face grim.

Suddenly aware of his visitor's scrutiny on how he clung to the fireplace, the first man retracted his hands quickly into his cloak. The childish movement, like he was caught stealing sweets from the candy bowl, made him look startlingly young - but he was startlingly young. It was but a brief moment and the mask of chilly disdain quickly settled back onto his features, ageing them with bitter lines. He leaned back casually against brickwork, arms folded beneath his cloak. "I had a fall," he said coldly, "I'll be fine. You're here to discuss the Dark Lord's defeat then."

"No, I'm here to ascertain that the Auror Office released you today, as they'd promised me," the old man replied with the grim expression unchanging on his face.

"Then I've cast in my lot with the right master. I didn't expect it, but thanks." Despite his claim of gratitude, the young man's tone was as cold and rude.

"I'm not Voldemort," the old man said coolly.

The younger man sucked in a breath. For a moment he seemed about to say something, then he slowly released his breath without a word. Instead, he bared his teeth in a forced smile at the old man.

The old man's penetrating gaze continued its scrutiny of the young man's wilting posture. It was as if his eyes were two blue beams of light that could cut right through the black cloak obscuring the other's form. He ran a hand thoughtfully through the silver strands of his overly long beard.

"Come, Severus. Sit down. Let's have a chat." The old man gestured at the other armchair.

"I thought so," the other sneered. Despite his disdainful tone, he strode forward towards the indicated armchair. Unfortunately, after two steps his legs folded and he collapsed onto his hands and knees. There he crouched, his body trembling with strain.

His visitor stood then, and moved to stand before him. "You're not well."

The young man raised his head and gave the other a ghastly smile. "Looks like I've fallen and can't get up."

"Give me your hand then, let me help you," the old man said softly. He proffered a gnarled hand. Though its knuckles were knobbly and the skin spotted with age, it looked surprisingly strong, probably strong enough to pull a man up from the floor.

"No."

"As you wish." The old man stepped back and folded his hands behind his back. He waited.

"Command me or leave me be, Dumbledore!" the young man hissed. His pallid face was prideful and his words were spat out with spite. "We've reached our respective goals. For you, the Dark Lord is defeated. For me, Lily is now safe. What else do you want from me?"

The old man looked saddened. "Nothing for now."

"Then leave me be. I need to pack up."

"I'll leave you for now, but I've not released you from my service. Oh yes, did you think it'd be so simple? Rest and come to my office at ten tonight. Don't look at me this way. Lord Voldemort's defeat is only a setback. He will be back and we must be ready." The old man's tone was brisk, his words business-like.

Black eyes filled with venom and resentment followed the old man's back as he left the room.


	2. 1-2 The Heart of Winter

The Heart of Winter

 _\- 1984, Hogwarts -_

Winter, yet another winter, where light fails quickly. Brief flashes of white flickered from the shadows without, whenever the falling snow caught the light. Some flakes dashed themselves against the windowpane like tiny blind moths. Each lingered briefly against the heated glass and left a single, tiny teardrop behind. Then that too evaporated, returning into the heart of winter beyond.

Two men sat facing each other, having a conversation. Between them was an enormous claw-footed desk. Unusual knick-knacks and more mundane stationery crowded the complex geography of the desktop, but the gold-lettered sign in front left no doubts about the identity of the old man behind the desk: _Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster_.

"Don't waste my time," said the other man.

"So Severus Snape considers a tragedy of this magnitude to be a waste of time." Dumbledore stated. His ice-blue eyes regarded the other with a chilly contempt. "Does he consider his students a waste of time too?"

"Command me. Or leave me be," Snape said tersely.

"No remorse, Severus? None at all?"

"For what?" Snape turned a bland face to the Headmaster. At times he would show his own contempt for Dumbledore that way, by not bothering to create any expression at all, not even the easy ones of anger or hatred.

"Don't give me that," Dumbledore said in irritation, waving his hand as if to shoo a pesky fly away. The other man shrugged and fixated his gaze to a point on the wall behind the Headmaster.

"I remember the poor boy's father quite well. I last met him the year Voldemort fell. Difficult times, between his Auror work and single parenthood. Still remarkably pleasant though, almost unchanged from his student days. I'm sure you remember Arctinus Smethwyck. He had such a cheerful smile. It was a bit goofy with the cracked third tooth on the right. He refused to get it fixed because a runaway Snitch broke it. His good luck tooth, he called it. You remember all that, don't you?"

Snape did not respond. His gaze remained fixed to the far wall.

"I remember asking why he liked chocolate frogs so much," reminisced Dumbledore. "He told me that he didn't. He was buying them for one of the first years who liked them but couldn't afford any, he said."

"What do you want, Headmaster?" demanded Snape, as he examined the yellow flowers on truly hideous wallpaper.

"Nothing for now. Just indulging in my pleasant memories of past students."

"By all means." Snape stood up with a sneer.

"I didn't say you could leave." Dumbledore said sharply. His gaze suddenly focused on the other. It was no longer a nostalgic, happy look. The other sat down abruptly, his back stiff against the chair, like an insect pinned down for collection. Snape fixated his gaze on the far wall again, his expression stony.

"Arctinus said he felt sorry for the boy, whom the Gryffindors picked on constantly. He would give the boy a frog whenever he found him crying. Why that's very kind of you, Mr. Smethwyck, I said, and who might our young anuraphilic be?

"I'm sorry, sir, Arctinus replied, but I can't tell you. The kid's proud. If a teacher started interfering in what he considers to be his own affairs, he'd feel even worse. Perceptive, young Arctinus Smethwyck. A very perceptive and empathetic child even then." Dumbledore sighed. "The lost of his family - most of it - must have been a terrible blow to him."

"That kid never liked chocolate," Snape said scornfully. "He only wanted the cards. He wanted to become as powerful as the famous figures, so he could destroy his enemies one day." His lips curled. "Just childish fantasies and sweets he didn't like."

"No remorse, Severus? You feel nothing?"

"You've no idea what I feel or don't feel," Snape replied flatly.

Dumbledore sighed regretfully, shaking his head. "Then we have little problem, don't we? After all this time, I still have no idea what you're thinking."

"After all this time, you should get use to it." The same flat tone.

"Then talk to me, tell me about the boy."

"We already know the ending to that story."

"I meant Hippocrates Smethwyck. Although you're all little boys to me!" Dumbledore chuckled merrily.

"I'm a wicked old man now." Snape said unsmilingly. "I learn from the master."

"Nonsense. Hippocrates, tell me about him. He looks a lot like his mother, I think. Do you remember his mother?"

"Are you done yet?"

Dumbledore ignored Snape. He stroked his beard thoughtfully as he rambled on. "Of course! He has her curly hair. You remember Amelia Smethwyck, don't you? She was in the Quidditch team with Arctinus. Her hair was crazy, and she kept it long too. Do you remember how she had them in these ridiculously long braids? She liked to tease the first years. She would sit on her broom and -"

Snape's clenched fist crashed down on the table with a resounding bang.

Ink splashed out of the inkpot as it clattered back down onto the table. Tiny black flowers bloomed on the hardwood surface. Papers skittered. Stacks of scrolls listed dangerously. Bizarre ornaments of unclear purpose oscillated in silence. The man too was trembling, his taut face white with rage.

Dumbledore peered disapprovingly over his half-moon glasses. "Temper, Severus."

"Are you satisfied? May I go?"

"No, you may not."

" _Why_ are you doing this?"

Dumbledore regarded at the other from behind steepled fingers. "I have a better question, Severus. _Why_ did you do it?"

"Do what? Tell me. What?" Snape stared at Dumbledore with an enraged expression. _Try it_ , his eyes challenged the other.

Dumbledore waved his hand dismissively. "Tell me about Hippocrates Smethwyck."

"Fine! He's an ambitious sycophant! A nasty little plotter!" Snape glowered at Dumbledore. "He has ingratiated himself with the professors Flitwick and McGonagall, to get additional instruction in Charms and Transfiguration. He's already joined professor Sprout's Gardening Club to gain access to potion ingredients, and no doubt for easy approval into the Forbidden Forest later on."

"Extra teaching is Minerva's hobby, especially with advanced students. And it's actually the reverse, hard to restrain Filius once he gets started. But all of this you should know yourself, surely? Perhaps your outlook colours your perception." Dumbledore raised a meaningful eyebrow in turn.

"Hmph. He is exempted from flying because of vertigo. How convenient. He spends that time hanging around the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey. He hungers for power, he wants -" Snape paused, and seemed to deflate somewhat. "- a career in St. Mungo's."

"Sounds like a charming child. But how's your relationship with the boy?"

"The thieving brat steals from my stores constantly. When he goes after something too dangerous, I catch him and send him to professor McGonagall for detention."

Snape frowned at Dumbledore's questioning look and explained reluctantly, "He needs more work on his Transfiguration if he is to become a Healer."

Dumbledore's lips twitched. "So ... does he know?"

"Know what?"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I guess not then. Poor, poor boy, I'll need to have a chat with him some time. You may go now, Severus."

Snape did not get up.

"You may go, Severus."

Snape stood up and made as if to leave. Suddenly he blurted out, "You're not going to tell him, right?"

"Ah ah ah," Dumbledore shook a finger. "Tell him what?"

Snape's gaped at Dumbledore speechlessly, his face dark with fury. It seemed as if he would start shouting, but after a few moments he burst into a rude laugh. Dumbledore frowned, looking slightly disconcerted for the first time in the conversation.

"It's clear I've much to learn," Snape said bitterly, "the Dark Lord prefers _crucio_."

"My dear boy, the rod breaks the body, fear breaks the mind. But it is love that breaks the heart."

"But neither will you get a confession out of me this way."

Dumbledore smiled cryptically. "That was not my intention. You may go, Severus."

Snape bowed stiffly and strode out of the room.


	3. 1-3 A Mind in Shadow

**_Disclaimer:  
_ _This chapter contains scenes that some readers may find disturbing. The author strongly condemns acts of violence depicted below in any non-fictional setting._**

* * *

A Mind in Shadow

 _\- 1979, Unnamed Muggle suburbs -_

 _An third attempt to meet._

"TRYST", the seated man printed out carefully onto the newspaper. The ink of the ballpoint pen was baby blue. This would be an uncommon ink colour in the Wizarding World except for specialised scrollwork. Even fountain pens were considered too modern for the conservative tastes of many wizards, and these were invented over a century ago.

He spared a glance across the room. It was clearly not over yet from the creaking of the bed. A muscular man was perched on the dresser, his legs dangling over the upset drawers. His masked face bobbed as he looked down at the antics in the bed below.

 _Accountant for the seasons._

The seated man gazed out of the window, observing the angle of the sun. Beyond was another world. A world of long days and warm nights, neighbourhood tea parties, conversations over garden hedges, splashing in the swimming pool... The lawn beneath was immaculate beneath the golden sunlight. Did the Muggle neighbours believe it to be a product of mundane lawn mastery, or did they suspect a more unusual source of perfection?

The Assimilators had held up the house itself as a demonstration that the Wizarding World could "assimilate" with the encroaching Muggle suburbs. The Separatists would have deterred Muggle construction with some interesting curses, while the Traditionalists would have defined the Muggles as tenants. It was no coincidence that most Traditionalists came from pureblood gentry for whom the benefits of their so-called rent exceeded the cost of ensorcelling payment from the Muggles. This household was not one of those families. He did not find it surprising that they were Assimilators. It would be completely in the spirit of self-interest.

"SUM -"

"Who's next? Lion?"

"- MER"

"You're a demon, Goat. I need more time," Lion replied.

The man looked up, and caught Goat elbowing Lion. Both of them were looking at him. "Your turn next, Snake?" Goat asked awkwardly. While Snake himself must know about the whispers that circulated behind his back, it would be bad taste indeed to take such gossip out into the open.

Snake rose to his feet. "Maybe. Time is something that is running out." He capped the pen and set it down on the dressing table.

"That's a Muggle quill?" Goat asked. His thin, oily voice was ingratiating. The distraction.

"This? Yes." Snake said. He picked up the pen again and examined it. "A curious thing. I think I will keep it as a trophy." He put it into the pocket of his Muggle clothes. Such was the ease with which he wore the strange clothing that he could have passed for a Muggle even with the mask on. But the man was no Muggle, for he next picked up a wand from the table and held it with the practised grip only a Wizard could have.

"Get out and smash some furniture." Snake ordered.

Snake strode up to the bed. Lion and Goat made way for him and left the room. From the way they deferred to him, it was clear that he was their leader. The Snake was always the leader, whoever the Snake was. The Goat came next, and the Lion was last. These were the rules. The Snake also knew the true names of Goat and Lion, whereas the other two only recognized one another by the designs of their masks. No, it would not be wise to cross the Snake.

On the other hand, there were always two to watch and report, two hoping to rise in station, two who would like to become Snakes themselves. Snake leaned over the twisted sheets, one hand pressing his wand to the forehead of the woman tangled within them, the other pressed against one of her bruised breasts.

"Shall we continue, Mrs. Smethwyck?" Snake asked.

Mrs. Smethwyck's glazed eyes focused on the man before her. They hardened with anger and her muscles clenched. Without the binding curse, she would surely have sprung up to strangle the Snake. Instead she spat into the man's face. The bloody spittle dripped down the patterned surface of the man's brass mask.

"Go to hell," she spat.

The man gave her nipple a hard twist in return. Mrs. Smethwyck gritted her teeth and glared at her tormentor as he toyed with her breast. He ignored her furious glare, keeping his gaze focused on the headboard. The pressure of the wandtip against her forehead eased as the touch of his hand grew gentle, even caressing. The murderous look on Mrs. Smethwyck's face turned to one of alarm as she saw how the rise and fall of her tormentor's chest grew quick and shallow.

A choked sob broke the silence of the room. Snake's hand froze on Mrs. Smethwyck's face. His gaze dropped from the headboard and met hers. The woman was fighting back the tears in her eyes, but her voice was controlled and dignified when she spoke.

"Please stop. I know you don't like it either. Your eyes were closed throughout just now. Don't do this."

"You presume to know." Nevertheless, the man lowered his hand and straightened. He moved his wand from her forehead to her nose. "Your husband should be back soon. Remember to convey to him the Dark Lord's regards _._ "

Mrs. Smethwyck was staring at the wand right before her eyes. The next moment, they dart up again to meet Snake's.

"It's you!" She cried out.

Snake jerked back from shriek of horror and recognition.

" _Why_?" Mrs. Smethwyck screamed, her eyes wild, "Why are you doing this? You know me! You're S-"

The words ended in a gurgle and a spray of red. The woman groaned and twitched as the crimson storm splattered the walls and windows with its marks of violence. Snake stepped back, but the initial tsunami of blood had already drenched his clothes in gore.

The binding curse was broken. Mrs. Smethwyck continued to jerk and spasm. She was taking an unpleasantly long time to die. Snake backed up to the dressing table. The formerly white sheets grew so deeply scarlet they looked black. Blood ran down the mattress and bedposts onto the floor in a spreading pool.

Mrs. Smethwyck's eyes continued to glare at Snake accusingly until her body grew still.

Snake slowly lowered his wand. Blood dripped from his drenched shirtsleeves, down his hand, along his wand, onto the ground. He should have used the Killing Curse, but he had reacted instinctively at that moment. He had swung with the strength of a grown man rather than flicked with finesse; the horrific gash on the woman's neck was so deep that the white of her spine could be seen, and if not for the inability of his spell to cut bone, the woman's decapitated head would now be rolling around on her bed.

" _Bloody hell!_ " It was Goat.

Snake flicked his wand hand, shaking the blood off in a jet. He turned to regard his conspirators, who had returned. Lion was doubled over at the doorway, retching in heaves. "An apt description," Snake said blandly.

"Why? You wanted t'smash the house." Goat asked, shaking his head.

"You're one to talk," Snake replied coolly, "Smashing didn't seem enough for you."

"You're bloody bonkers!" gasped Lion, from behind Goat.

"Did you think it's all fun and games, _initiate_?" Snake mocked, "Close your eyes, make a wish, and the Dark Lord's enemies will disappear?"

"But she's a pure-blood!" Lion protested.

"A blood-traitor," Snake said dismissively. "But more than a match for the two of your together, without me to take her down." Lion and Goat quickly lowered their raised wands at the threatening tone.

"Alright Snake, but I don't get it." Goat's tone was placating.

Snake snorted. "She's not a _Muggle_ , Goat! Have you any idea what mischief she could wreak using your seed?"

"Ah... good point." Goat conceded. Such magic would be unpleasant indeed.

"Foolhardy, but I went along. I even cleaned up, knowing how sentimental you get towards your conquests." Snake jabbed a bony finger in Goat's direction.

"True, true." Goat was nodding now.

"Couldn't you just ... actually clean her up?" Lion said awkwardly.

Snake laughed rudely at Lion. "I let you have your fun, why can't I have mine?" He sighed in exasperation. "Time's short. Let's finish this before Smethwyck returns. Three children, one each."

"They're _children_ , Snake!" Lion's pale brown eyes were wide behind his silver mask.

"Oh stow it, Lion." Goat rolled his eyes. He scratched his head. "But I dunno, Snake. Maybe we have an understanding."

"Time is short, but very well." Snake said.

"Are you _both_ mad?" protested Lion. He raised his wand instinctively.

Goat turned, his wand pointed at Lion. "Different strokes for different folks, Lion. Let's go downstairs. Go on, Snake." There was a hint of respect in his voice that was absent before.

Lion lowered his wand dispiritedly and let Goat herd him out.

Snake lit up the woman. Cleansed in flames. He threw his cloak over himself and left the charred corpse.

The cloak was soaked through quickly. His feet left bloody boot prints as he walked down the hallway. No matter. Sunlight streamed in from the right, past impossibly cheerful pastel green curtains printed with little yellow fishes.

He released the spell on the first door. It was the baby's bedroom with pastel blue wallpaper and the same pastel green curtains. The baby looked at the stranger curiously with its big pale eyes. Slice. Burn. Easy.

The second bedroom held a girl of about five. She lunged at him with a pair of scissors the moment he released the door, but he knocked her back easily with a swipe of the wand. She fell into some elaborate structure stacked from playing blocks. Everything came tumbling down in a rumble of bright colours and limbs. Slice. Burn. Messy. Not as messy as the woman, but messy. Still, one ought to be consistent about such things.

The third bedroom was empty. Snake looked around. A twisted bedsheet was tied to the bedpost and stretched past the drawn curtains. Futile. The length of a bedsheet and even possibly a blanket together would not reach the ground. He brushed aside the little yellow fishes and looked out of the window. As expected, a boy also about five was clinging to the end of the bedsheet. The child was looking down at the quite distant ground.

"Hello there," Snake said. The terrified face of the boy turned up to him.

"Might I assist?" He waited. No response. "I suppose I shall then," he said. He flicked his wand, and the bedsheet parted. The boy hit the ground with a wet thud and was still. One had to be sure though.

Bangs and yells interrupted the _coup de grâce_. Snake slid out of the window and floated to the ground. From the sounds that continued, there was a battle in the front of the house. He levitated the boy's body and crept around the side of the house.

It was Smethwyck and another. Lion was already sprawled out on the ground, unconscious or dead. Goat was stumbling from the combined assault of the two wizards.

He projected the boy at Smethwyck with force. The father broke off to rescue his son, letting Snake block the other wizard's hex and sweep Goat over. Goat lolled unsteadily in his grip. Useless. He managed to block the renewed stream of hexes, though one caught his shoulder and tore his cloak off. The pain blooming down his side nearly disrupted his concentration; Never underestimate the power of grief. But his bloody clothes proved to be a boon, as he finally completed the Disapparation with the brief letup in attacks.

Snake laughed at the horrified faces of the two wizards as he escaped into the void.


	4. 1-4 A Body of Clay

A Body of Clay

 _\- 1981, Azkaban -_

An unearthly sense of horror seeped in from every direction, insinuating itself deep into the very marrow of the prisoner's bones. The inhuman chill assaulted the human body from every direction, if there was such a thing as direction there in the crushing darkness. Except for up and down. The agony of his feet told him that much.

Time passed, or not.

Then the light came, as it periodically did. His tiny world exploded in spots and shapes. Disoriented, he fell back. Immediately, he gagged as the noose tightened about his neck. It was a struggle to get upright again, but he finally managed.

"How're we doing today, boy?" He could not make anything out from the spots in his vision, but he recognised the voice. It was a rough gravelly voice that constantly hovered at the edge between naturally cantankerous and purposefully rude. It was voice he would never forget.

"Could be better." He replied listlessly.

"Just say the word. It's entirely up to you, of course."

"Yes."

"Magic words."

"Yes, please. I would like a chat, sir." He said meekly.

"Since you're begging so nicely..."

The ropes slid from his neck and wrists. He slid likewise onto the ground with his legs stretched out before him. His eyes were adjusting slowly to the light, such that he could make out the two hooded and masked men standing before him. Naturally, it was Nasty and Silent.

"What should you say?" Nasty asked. He twirled his wand restlessly.

"Thank you, sir." He said meekly.

"Good boy. Now tell me something useful and I'll let you nap for a while."

"I'm confused, sir." He said in the same meek tone. "What do you want me to say? I'll say it of course. I just don't know why I'm here."

"Bah! Wasting my time again eh?" Nasty stabbed the air with his wand. The prisoner cringed, but nothing happened. Nasty started chuckling instead. "Change of routine today, worm." The man marched out, followed by his ever-silent companion.

A jolt of pain in his ribs woke the prisoner. He looked up to see Nasty and Silent back. Two others were with them. Both were dressed like Muggles. One was slim and wiry. Beneath a loose denim coat, a checkered shirt could be seen. His worn jeans were tucked into knee-high, steel-toed boots. The other tall and broad-chested. The powerful muscles of his torso bulged from beneath the long-sleeved turtleneck shirt he wore. His denim pants were the same grey colour as his shirt, and they too were bursting with the impressive girth of his thighs. Slim and Muscle were masked and hooded as well.

"He's all yours." Nasty pulled a glass vial from his robes and offered it to the newcomers. Slim shook his head.

Nasty shrugged and turned to the prisoner. He shook the vial. "Will you drink it, or do I make you?"

"I'll drink it," the prisoner said quickly. He sat up, took the vial from Nasty and downed the contents.

"All right boys, you have fun. We'll be outside." The cell door slammed behind Nasty and Silent.

Slim and Muscle looked down at the prisoner.

"What's your name?" Muscle asked.

"Severus Snape."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"What colour is your hair?"

"Black."

"List your victims."

"When I was six, I ripped up Johnson's teddy bear -"

"List your victims as a Death Eater!"

"The day you arrested me. Hogsmeade was so crowded with everyone rushing about. I bumped into an elderly lady and she stumbled into a man -"

"Enough." Slim interrupted. He moved to stand before the prisoner. He pushed back his hood, revealing pale brown hair.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Muscle protested.

"Having a face to face talk."

"Can't do that, mate. Against the rules."

"The last words I expect coming from you, my friend." Slim said.

Muscle sighed and nodded.

Slim undid the straps holding the featureless mask to his head. He lowered his face and let the mask drop into his hands. When he raised his head, it was the tired face of a young man in his twenties. His features were good-looking in a refined sort of manner, but set in a stern expression that made him look chilly.

The prisoner's eyes widened.

"Bollocks, if you're taking off your mask I'll do it too," Muscle said. He pushed back his hood and pulled off his mask, revealing a ruddy and rugged face. The man was about the same age as Slim.

"Well, who are we?" Muscle asked the prisoner.

"Arctinus Smethwyck. Homer Wood." the prisoner stated faintly.

"Surprised? Quidditch Chaser and Keeper from your school days, running this bloody horror show?" Muscle's voice was filled with distaste. He sighed and shook his head. When the prisoner did not respond, he continued bitterly, "Mister V and the consequences of his civil war are real. Today, we're Aurors. You're a Death Eater, but _this_ part isn't so surprising to me."

The prisoner remained silent. Muscle snorted in disgust and stepped back to the side with his wand raised. He fingered his two eyes and pointed at the prisoner.

Slim inspected the prisoner disdainfully. "So our little Severus has grown up. And how are we doing today, Sev?"

"Could be better."

"I was informed that you are very resistant to veritaserum. Those complaints are well-founded, it would seem." Slim's accent and speaking style was as elegant as his features, though quite at odds with his functional clothing.

"Very?" The prisoner grimaced humourlessly. "You are or you aren't. Surely _you_ understand the asymptotic efficacy of veritaserum. Anything beyond three drops is a waste."

Slim did not respond, but continued to inspect the prisoner with a disdainful gaze. The moment of silence became a pause, then a stretch. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed hysterically. It was a mindless, shrieking laughter, without intelligence or purpose. The inhuman sound echoed like a curse through the hollow halls of the prison.

"I recognised you that day," Slim said finally.

The prisoner closed his eyes. Blood drained from his already pallid face. His bloodless lips compressed into a thin line.

Slim continued. "When your cloak fell off, I recognised you. Your hair, your frame, your voice, and the way you laughed. The same way you laughed after a session with - what do they call themselves - the Marauders."

The prisoner bowed his head and did not respond.

"I want the truth, Sev." Slim said softly, "I don't care if you keep the rest of your secrets, but don't you think you owe me the truth on this?"

"You may want the truth. But you won't like the truth," The prisoner said faintly.

"I may not like the truth, but I need the truth."

The prisoner raised his head. "Then ask."

"The other you took with you. Who is he?"

"A Death Eater." The prisoner sounded tired. "I will only answer for myself, Ark."

Slim nodded, his face sombre. "I see. I apologise. The truth then, only for yourself?"

The prisoner nodded.

"I know you were the Snake. Did Mister V order you to kill my family?"

"As you can imagine, it wasn't our own fun jaunt. The Dark Lord ordered me to send a warning after the solstice blitz." The prisoner's eyes twitched and he took a shuddering breath. He breathed out slowly and continued, his gaze distant, "He did not specify what type of warning. He did not order me to kill your family."

"What?" Slim gasped. His face creased into a momentary expression of shock and anger. Just as quickly, he collected himself. "Then why did you kill Amelia?"

"I - I - " The prisoner grimaced and his body shook. "It seems telling the truth is harder than lying," he hissed through gritted teeth.

"I... I... was... afraid. I was afraid!" His shoulders slumped and he continued a toneless recital with his head bowed. "I asked them to trash the house only. Believe me. I did. But one of them wanted ... more. He would jump on anything female, really. I was afraid. I had to be one of them. I couldn't be weak."

The prisoner covered his face with his hands as he spoke rapidly and tonelessly. "Amelia recognised me. I was afraid. I panicked and - and - and I don't know why. I don't know why. I can't answer. I don't know. I should have used the Killing Curse. She was looking at me. Her eyes were looking at me. Her throat was like a giant mouth. Projectile-vomit of meat sauce. The tomato-based type you put on pasta. It's like meat. Just like meat. She was looking at me. How would I stop a wound like that? Should have used the Killing Curse. Too much blood. It's different when you know the person. Completely different. I didn't want to kill her. She forced me."

"Ever...heard...of _Obliviate_ , you fool?" Slim grounded through gritted teeth.

"Breakable charm. Easier to kill."

Slim's eyes bulged and his shoulders shook. "Then why kill the children?"

"You don't want to know," the prisoner murmured faintly.

"I don't, but I need to."

The prisoner sighed and continued monotonously. "Because I could. I didn't want them to grow up and go after me for revenge. That would be troublesome. Maybe just for fun. To make the others admire and fear me. What do I care about some brats?" He lifted his head. His eyes focused on Slim's stunned expression. "I said you wouldn't like the truth."

"But I'm glad I had it, finally," Slim breathed. "So...I guess... thank you."

"I've condemned myself to Azkaban with these words. I deserve something in return. At least tell me how the Dark Lord fell," the prisoner demanded.

"You deserve nothing!" Slim snapped. "Condemned? _I'm_ the one who's condemned!"

Slim smiled grimly. "You will be remanded to Hogwarts today. By the highest order, your file will be closed, and you will return to your job at Hogwarts with your name untarnished."

"Why?" The prisoner asked.

Slim ignored him, and continued on bitterly. "We, the dutiful servants of the people and representatives of the Ministry of Magic, who've risked our lives time and again for it, who've seen our colleagues, friends and family died or tortured for our work, will just have to shut up and toe the line. Unbelievable. What a comedy of Justice! Aren't you lucky the big D is watching out for you? He and his so-called Order are nothing but another gang of thugs to me! What about us? How do I answer to Amelia and the kids? Why must they be sacrificed to defeat Mister V? And it was all meaningless sacrifice!"

Slim ended his furious rant, out of breath. He took in a few deep breaths.

"Ark, please, I -"

"Shut up!" Slim shrieked. He swung, knocking the prisoner to his side. A steel-toed boot crashed into his stomach, then another into his ribs. Slim kicked and stomped like a man possessed.

Muscle dragged Slim back. "That's enough, Ark. You're killing him."

Slim regarded the motionless heap that was prisoner. He pulled a vial filled with pale blue fluid from his pocket with a smirk.

Muscle laughed in relief. "You had me worried for a moment," he said.

"Constant Vigilance!" Slim rasped mockingly. He bent down, forced the prisoner's mouth open and poured the vial down the man's throat.

The Aurors waited.

After a while, the prisoner spasmed and his eyes opened. He sat up and coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood and mucus. "That's illegal," he croaked, as he felt his own body gingerly.

"So what?" Slim struck the prisoner across the face. The ring on his hand gouged a deep gash across the prisoner's face, but in seconds, the wound knitted together, leaving only blood on smooth skin. Slim nodded with a satisfied look on his face.

Slim grabbed the prisoner's collar and hauled him to his feet. "Time to pay the piper, Severus Snape."

The prisoner swayed like a drunken man. He continued shuddering. "That burns," he panted. He looked at Slim with a maniacal, feverish gaze. "Give me another dose then."

Slim threw back his coat and drew the sword strapped to his side. "That'd be a fatal overdose. You don't get to escape that easily." He said grimly, "we still have to deliver you to the big D, remember?"

The prisoner closed his eyes with a twisted smile on his face. "Do your worst then. Time is running."

Steel flashed. Blood splattered across the stone floor.


	5. 2-1 Young Hearts

Young Hearts

 _\- 1991, Hogwarts -_

A single eye slid across the frame of the doorway, framed by a shock of unruly black hair. A strong cheek and half a sneaky smile followed. The eye tracked the movement of the man standing before an old cupboard squashed between two larger bookshelves. While the crooked fit of the cupboard into such an unprofitable space attested to the decorator's spatial mastery, the sheer amount of knick-knacks crammed into the interior of the open cupboard elevated the user's status to that of pedigree packrat.

The man suddenly turned, black robes swirling about his gaunt frame. "No misbehaving allowed today, Ms. Wood!"

"Gee, prof. How d'you know I am here?" The half-a-face said, with half-a-cheeky grin.

"Magic," said her teacher dryly.

The single eye rolled in exasperation and the other half of the young woman's head entered the doorway, followed by the rest of her body. She cut a striking figure in a formal scarlet robe. Stylized phoenixes danced in golden whorls about the hems of her robe, contrasting pleasantly with the deep tan of her skin. In her arms, she held an large, flat and thin parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"Ding ding ding! Pizza delivery for professor Snape of Hogwarts," she declared. "By the way, pizza is a type of Muggle flatbread with cheese on top."

"I know what pizza is, Ms. Wood."

"Awesome! But you're such a spoilsport, prof. We wanted to take pictures with the teachers after the ceremony. Some of the parents were asking after you too. But here you are, back in dungeon mode already."

"What's that?" Snape eyed the parcel.

"Filthy Hippy secret," Wood beamed, "he'll be along shortly." She into the cramped office and looked about. Finally, after a gasp of mock horror at the overflowing writing desk, she gently placed the parcel on top of the chair next to the desk. "Now I've to help carry our industrial-sized catnip ball to prof McGonagall. We put a Replicating Charm inside the core of it. Awesome, huh?"

"Cheeky. Off with you then."

"Oh prof, why are you so... Wait, let me show you something." Wood pulled a little metal disc from her robes and showed it to her teacher. It was the size of a Galleon, with four grey letters "S" spaced evenly along the edge of the disc. A small sharp barb sat at the centre of the other face.

"We made it after the N.E.W.T.s and it stands for 'Survived Seven School-years of Snape'."

"How flattering."

"Wait, there's more." The young woman jammed her thumb over the barb with a wince. The disc seemed to light up as a line of blood flowed out along a channel within the disc itself towards the first "S". The letter blackened and started to squirm as the blood reached it, and finally became a tiny black serpent. Another channel leading towards the second "S" filled with white, and the letter likewise transformed into a tiny white serpent.

Snape was now looking at the disc with great interest.

The third and fourth letters became red and yellow serpents. When all four serpents were lit up, they started to swim around the edge of the disc, weaving in and out between each other in complex choreography.

Wood pulled her thumb from back of the disc. The serpents swam back to the edge of the disc and faded back into four "S" letters. Snape looked up and at Wood, nodding in approval.

"Well done, Ms Wood."

"Please call me Maggie, prof."

"Well done, Maggie Wood." Snape offered his hand. He shook Wood's hand solemnly. Wood put the disc into Snape's hand after their handshake.

"I want you to have my badge, prof. I'm making you an honorary member of the Secret Potions Club." He raised an eyebrow at her.

"We couldn't have run the club without your support," Wood explained. "You always just replaced what went missing out of your own pocket, and I don't think you have a big salary! Then whatever we needed would just appear unlocked, or sitting on the shelf. I don't think that's coincidence!" Her face flushed and she grabbed Snape's hands. "And then when we messed up, you'd make our medicine without busting us. Come on prof -"

Snape pulled his hands back in alarm and stepped back hastily. He scowled unpleasantly at Wood. "I don't know what you're talking about. I certainly don't support student activity clubs explicitly deemed dangerous by the board of governors. In fact, if such a club existed, I would have to shut it down."

"Am I interrupting?" A voice sounded from the doorway.

"Saved by the bell!" Wood cried out in relief. "Or a filthy Hippy!" She rushed to the newcomer at doorway.

A smiling young man stood at the doorway. Cropped tight curls framed his elegant pale features like a silver fire, the same silver as the twisting silver trim on his deep green robes. He was small, not much larger than Wood, such that when the two of them stood next to each other, they looked almost like colour negatives of each other.

"I see you're showing professor Snape the class badge made by our Potions study group," Hippy said, smiling at his friend. "The club thing is just a nickname, sir."

His teacher inspected the disc about in his hand, looking as pleased as a cat with catnip. "It's good that hardworking students are organising study groups. But if you manage to find more snakes in the future, don't make a badge of them. Wizards have killed for such knowledge."

"Don't worry, sir. Besides, Fred and George Weasley are going to lead the study group next year, and their interests are in a completely different direction."

"Dang! I'm supposed to help Charlie with prof McGonagall's gift," Wood cried. "Glad you like the Public Potions Study Group badge, prof. Don't be a stranger!" She squeezed past the young man and rushed off.

"Maggie and I are getting married," Hippy said. He monitored Snape's expression carefully.

"Congratulations. Any trouble?"

"Yes, of course. She says some of her friends won't talk to her anymore. Some of mine too. I guess they only accept mix-blood as long as it remained a dalliance. You ... believe in blood segregation, sir?"

Snape looked up sharply from the disc and met Hippy's watchful look. "Only when I was young and stupid."

"Oh, right. I forgot you were from that era."

"I don't believe in such nonsense anymore," Snape said firmly.

Hippy nodded. "Of course, sir."

Snape gave an annoyed sigh. "Hippy, my father was a Muggle. We lived in the Muggles' slum. No, I didn't have a high opinion of Muggles back then."

Hippy's stiff postured relaxed. He looked sympathetic and fairly embarassed. "I'm sorry about that, sir. I must have sounded stupid. Mrs. Wood is great though, you won't be able to tell her from a Squib. She's a science fiction writer - science fiction is Muggle make-belief about magic."

"I know what science fiction is, Hippy."

"Sorry sir, that was stupid. I feel like I'm losing it. Howlers non-stop from relatives on my mother's side."

"I knew your mother. She doesn't subscribe to their ideology."

"That has to be. I'm pretty sure of they're wrong about my father too. They would say anything to get at me."

"I would be proud of a son like you," Snape said stiffly, "hypothetically of course." He cleared his throat and turned back to the cupboard again. "If there's nothing else, I'm quite busy."

"Don't be like that, sir. You've been so good to us, since my father - and Maggie's - passed away. Er, well - you're sometimes really nasty, but on the whole good. You had all these fun projects to distract us the first year, when - when it was really bad. And you persuaded my uncle to let me stay in the dorm during summers. Madam Pomfrey and you are just like family to me. More than some of my blood relatives, actually. When -"

"Oh, don't be like that, sir!" Hippy stepped up to the cupboard. Snape whirled, a look of annoyance on his face. The two stared at each other. "Really, professor. Thank you," said Hippy. He embraced his teacher, who stood still stiffly at first, then after a while patted his student's back awkwardly.

"Did Maggie Wood infect you with the theatrics? You can release me now." Snape grumbled.

Hippy stepped back with a smile. "I don't know why you stay cooped up in here all the time. The world is bigger than Hogwarts. Look, Maggie and I are going shopping at Diagon Alley tomorrow. Why don't you come with us?"

"I'm really busy," muttered Snape.

"Merlin's beard! It's the start of summer, you have no classes."

"I have some other work I must do for the Headmaster."

"Don't be like that, sir."

"Hrm. All right then."

"Great." Hippy beamed. "Oh, the present for you, don't open it yet. I still have to get my certificate from professor Dumbledore. I'll be back in a bit, and then you can see what I got you. If Molly survives professor McGonagall, we can go to Hogsmeade for a pint."

His teacher nodded. "I'll wait."


	6. 2-2 The Molding of Minds

The Molding of Minds

 _\- 1984, Hogwarts -_

Large wicker baskets full of apples were stacked along the back of the classroom. The bright green fruit were a stark contrast with the large jars full of pickled animals that lined the sides of the classroom, but they too were destined for a gruesome fate; apple after apple was chopped up, tossed into the cauldron, and repeatedly mashed. If apples had feelings, the dying shrieks of murdered fruit would fill the room. Fortunately, _malus domestica_ was quite a mundane species, unlike, for example, _malus unguicularis_. The latter would also be costly to procure, whereas the former was literally growing on trees - on school grounds - and waiting to be plucked by students under detention. Finally, since everyone would have to drink their own potions at the end of the lesson, the idea of drinking apple juice would be more palatable to new students, even if it were apple juice with pulverised mealworms mixed in.

The potions instructor stalked up and down the aisles of the classroom. Where he passed, there was a noticeable increase of industriousness in fruit mashing and mash filtering. But the instructor, a thin, sallow-skinned man in black robes, appeared relaxed today; No points had been deducted yet, and nobody had been handed detention. The classroom was filled with the sharp and invigorating scent of apple. The more discerning nose would also detect other scents both sweet and earthly.

The instructor stopped beside a table. Two students, a small skinny boy and a dark-haired girl were grinding up mealworms. Unlike apples, mealworms had feelings. Fortunately, they were silent creatures and gave off no dying shrieks, though they made a plenty dying writhes.

"Mr. Smethwyck. Mr Smethwyck!" The boy looked up, startled. He had been so absorbed in his work that he had not noticed the instructor standing in front of his bench. Heads turned. Apple-mashing paused. The man gestured at the array of flasks on the bench with a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Explain this irregularity."

"Sir, it's my fault too!" the girl next to him protested. "I helped him prepare that."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Ms. Wood," the instructor hissed. "Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting out of turn."

A collective unvoiced groan passed through half of the classroom. The girl's face flushed red.

The instructor sneered, "But since you insisted, five points from Gryffindor for disobeying instructions." He turned back to the boy. "Your explanation, Mr. Smethwyck?"

The boy quailed before the withering gaze. "Uh... um. Well, um, sir, I thought it would - would be a good idea," he stammered, glancing at the girl next to him. She glared at him. He sucked in a deep breath and said, "The potion calls for willow bark, ground mealworm and poppy seed to be added. The instructions state that it's important to add them in the correct order, so I divided my base into four and asked Maggie for two-third of hers. This gives six portions for each combination."

The instructor looked from one child to the other, and back again. He sounded surprisingly mild when he continued his questioning. "And why do you want to test every combination?"

The boy looked embarrassed. "I plan to become a Healer, sir. I thought it'd a good idea to see what kind of variations there are to a pain-relieving potion."

"Five points from Slytherin, for disobeying instructions," the instructor stated. The other half of the class whispered.

The instructor continued his pacing. "The order of willow bark and ground mealworm does not matter," he declared, "the order of these two to poppy seed matters. How many permutations are there now, Mr. Smethwyck?"

"Four, sir."

"Yes. You would have produced one pain-reliever, one soporific, two emetics and two purgatives." A cruel smile danced on the instructor's lips. "Ten points from Slytherin for trying to brew poison." Without a glance at the girl, he continued, "Five points from Gryffindor for abetting the brewing of poison."

Groans and whispers sounded through the entire classroom. The lucky day turned out not to be so lucky after all. If House points were the precious coin to buy the House Cup, both Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses would agree (though it would offend the members of the Houses to know they agreed) that Wood and Smethwyck were profligates, at least in Potions. Half the classroom almost groaned outright as the girl's hand shot up.

"Yes, you may speak, Ms. Wood." the instructor said silkily.

"Sir, it can't be poison!" The girl looked indignant. "Then you'd be trying to poison us. Anyone could have confused the order of ingredients, and we'd still have to drink the potions at the end of the lesson. "

"Five points from Gryffindor for pointless pontification," the instructor stated coolly. The girl looked furious. She opened her mouth, but shut it again when the boy next to her yanked on her sleeve.

"Mr. Smethwyck, Ms. Wood, you will refer to _Woodland Wonders_ , _Intimate Insects_ , and _Basic Bases_. Write me a ten page essay by next week on willow bark, poppy seed, ground mealworm, and the potion bases typically used with these ingredients. Include an explanation on why the order of willow bark and ground mealworm doesn't matter. If your work is satisfactory, I will award ten points to each House. If it isn't, I will take off ten more for wasting my time. And write it together, I don't want to waste my time reading the same essay twice."

"Now, class, stop wasting time and back to your potion. It's so simple you can't _not_ produce something usable." The smirking man twirled his wand lazily as he resumed his pacing. "Remember you will consume your products at the end. This is just a toy potion, but I assure you the effects, though mild, are quite real."

The students returned hurriedly to their work. Many stopped working on the ingredients and started looking at their recipe card again. The small, cramped scrawl on the cards was difficult to make out, and it was no surprise that many students had only given their instructions a cursory inspection. But the latest revelation of the unexpected products they might end up consuming had inspired them to new heights of industriousness.

The instructor surveyed the classroom with a look of disdain as he stalked the aisles between the worktables. After a few rounds, he stopped before the previously offensive table again, his attention on the girl this time. "Only one portion of apple juice left. You're confident you'd need just one try to get your potion correct, aren't you?" He loomed over her table, examining the prepared ingredients with a sneer on his face.

At length, the man straightened. "Five points to Gryffindor, I suppose," he said dismissively, walking off. The girl opened her mouth, but shut it again when the boy next to her stepped on her foot.

At the end of the lesson, the instructor ordered the class to drink half of their potion and leave the other half for inspection, giving prior permission for anyone to leave for the washroom if they had to. A few students yawned and fell asleep on their chairs. Some started to gag or clutch their stomachs, and rushed out of the classroom. Their fellows wince sympathetically as their teacher rolled his eyes in disgust and made marks on the class namelist. He then produced a bottle and moved to each seat with a remaining student. There, he squeezed a dropper of liquid from the bottle into the student's potion. When the colourless liquid fell into the flasks, the pale yellow liquid within turned into shades of pink. After all the flasks were tested, the two flasks on the offensive table had the deepest hues. They glowed with a full, vivid magenta.

The instructor returned to the offensive table. Immediately, the boy raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr Smethwyck. You have a question?"

"What are you dropping into the flasks, sir?" The boy asked.

"There is a limit to my patience for time-wasting digressions," the instructor said dangerously. He picked up the two flasks, held them up to the light, shook them, and then swirled them this way and that. Fine bubbles tickled the top of one flask.

"Ms. Wood wins," the instructor declared. Glancing down at the boy, he stated, "Not because you interrupted me, but because her potion is better."

He stalked to the front of the classroom. "The winner earns ten points for Gryffindor. Class dismissed."

Half of the classroom burst into cheers. Napping students woke up groggily. The girl jumped up with a whoop of victory - and promptly knocked her cauldron over. With a loud clang, muddy detritus spilled over the entire surface of her worktable. It could have been a death toll from a funeral bell; the cheers abruptly died. The high tone hummed ominously in the air, and the students watched round-eyed as the dull goop crept over the edge of the table and splashed onto the ground. The girl stared at the instructor in horror, a hand over her mouth.

"Looks like natural talent is no match for Gryffindor recklessness," the instructor commented dryly. "Five points from Gryffindor for unsafe behaviour in the laboratory. Ms Wood, you will clean up this mess manually. The rest of the class may go."

The boy was waiting patiently when his friend came out of the classroom. She made a face at him. "Gross! I had to wipe up mealworm debris!"

He tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile. "At least he didn't make you lick it up."

"You're double gross, Hippy!" She made a grab for him with her sticky hands speckled with mealworm bits. He back-peddled in alarm.

"Maggie, um, I'm sorry for getting you into trouble just now."

She shrugged. "What are friends for?"

"Thanks. I think I'll go get the books from the library. See you later."

"You're going to skip flying class? Gee, you bookworm."

An awkward expression appeared on the boy's face. "They've approved my exemption."

"Oops." his friend squeaked, her face pink.

"It's ok."

"Alright, see you around, ground-bound and hide-bound. Go and slithery squirm in your books!" The girl recovered quickly from the awkward moment. Making zipping and zooming noises, she ran off in the direction of her next class.

The boy strolled to the library, but did not pass through the ostentatious archway. Instead, he sat himself down on a worn sandstone bench outside the entrance. Tiny anthropomorphic creatures and ugly humanoids carved into the stonework crept along the whorls and fronts of the library's facade and peeked at him. The boy pulled out a sealed letter from his satchel and turned it over a few times in his hands indecisively. Finally, he tore the short edge open and pulled out a letter in grey stationery.

A shadow fell across the boy. He looked up.

"Professor Snape!" He leaped to his feet and stuffed the letter into his pocket.

The potions instructor placed a book on the bench. It was _Basic Bases_. "I forgot I'd checked out the last copy."

"Please keep it if you need it, sir."

"No. I just wanted to compare the sixth and eighth editions."

"What's the difference between the sixth and eighth editions?"

"Numerous." the instructor was looking at him. The boy squirmed. "Sir?"

"So." The man sat himself on the bench. He glared up at the throng of stone carvings, and they scampered back into their original poses. He turned his attention back to the boy, but did not say anything. There was a long and awkward silence. The boy shifted from foot to foot. The professor's strange moods were well-known in the House, and the older students had warned the first years not to cross the Head of Slytherin when he was "acting weird". The man had seemed quite reasonable the few times the boy saw him in the common room, but the man turned into a demon in the classroom.

"Because there is a fixed curriculum and two hours a week isn't a long time." The instructor said.

The boy blinked. Where did _that_ come from? "I'm sorry, sir?"

"I don't disapprove of your interest in Potions," explained the instructor, "but I can't spend time sidetracking during every lesson because it takes my attention away from the weakest students, who need it the most. You don't want your friends to fail, do you?"

"No! I didn't realise. I'm sorry, sir."

"Page two-hundred and sixteen contains the answer to your earlier question." The instructor pointed at the book.

"Thanks, sir." His teacher was in reasonable mode then, although with the man's intent look it could also be a weird mode, just a nice weird mode. It was best that he refrained from provoking the man in any way.

"So you want to be a Healer." The potions instructor switched topic without preamble.

"Yes, sir."

" _Sola dosis facit venenum._ " the instructor looked at him expectantly.

The boy realised that he was being tested. " _Similia similibus curantur_ ," he replied.

"What do you get when you mix a drop of pit viper's venom with a mash of sage in the tears of a newborn?

"Heart Restart. All Wizarding households keep a lump in their medicine closets, especially when there are elderly in the family. The mash must also be dried midday during summer solstice."

The instructor nodded slowly. "Why do you want to be a Healer?"

"I'm sorry. I know it isn't a proper job..."

"Nonsense. Healing is proper."

"Er. Thanks. What I meant, um ..."

"Most Healers are Slytherin."

"Really? I thought -"

"Dark Wizarding has poor job prospects. Better be a Healer."

"Oh." The boy's nervousness and embarrassment increased. It seemed as if his silly ideas were being read aloud like from pages in an open book. He wanted to stand up and run away screaming, but that would be improper. He carefully maintained a neutral and attentive expression on his face as he contemplated the possible ways he might escape.

The instructor frowned. "Life and death are but two sides of the same coin," he said. "Have you ever wondered why Healers raise the Asklepian as their standard?"

"I didn't, but it makes sense now."

"But remember, Mr. Smethwyck: the serpent encircles the staff. See to it that you are the master of the serpent, and not the other way around. Do you understand me?"

"Maybe. I think so." He didn't, but best to give a neutral answer.

"Then why are you not at flying class?" Did his teacher suddenly switch the topic again? This time, it was an awkward topic.

"I'm exempted, sir. I had a bad fall long ago and can't balance on a broom."

His teacher frowned and remained silent.

"A Death Eater, uh, threw me out of the window when I was young," the boy offered.

The instructor continued to frown. The boy chewed on his lip and waited, but no response came. He wondered if reasonable mode was about to switch into demonic mode.

"Um... sir?"

His teacher snorted and finally responded. "Is that so. Then might I suggest a useful way to spend your time?"

"Of course, sir."

"To quote the great Paracelsus, 'the patients are your textbook, the sickbed is your study'. We have a hospital wing at Hogwarts."

"I understand, sir."

"Good. Ten page essay by next week." The instructor rapped the cover of the book and left.

The boy breathed a sigh of relief. He was not sure what to make of the incident, but he felt better than before the conversation. The unnamed worries that lurked anxiously at the back of his mind had been brought out into the open, and they had evaporated like the silly fancies they were when examined beneath the intense scrutiny of his teacher. Then he remembered the letter, and his mood deflated again. He took the slightly crumpled paper out of his pocket and opened it. He sat down on the bench and began reading.

 _Dear Hippy,_

 _Are you enjoying school? Since you didn't write, I took the liberty writing to you, at the risk of appearing like an overprotective parent. It doesn't matter to me what House you're in, but I'm curious how you're adjusting to school._

 _So you're in Slytherin. Maggie wrote to her father and Uncle Wood told me. He was quite agitated. I asked him about Maggie's House, and he was quite proud to report that she's in his House. At that point, I asked if he had forgotten that both your mother and I had been in Slytherin. (This is something I've neglected to mention to you before, but not because I was trying to hide something. I've just never thought much of the House system.)_

 _In fact, there are quite a few of us snakes in Enforcement. Uncle Wood insisted that we are different. I told him that he sounded like how certain people talk about new-bloods, and that shut him up._

 _So there you have it. Being of old-blood and in Slytherin doesn't mean being a Dark Wizard. But there are plenty of those Dark Wizard wannabes in Slytherin. Stay on their good side, but pick your friends carefully._

 _With Love, your father_

The boy leaped to his feet, a huge smile on his face. The day could not get better. He did not realise it then, but it was be the last letter he would receive from his father. The next letter would be in a black envelope, from the Ministry of Magic.


	7. 2-3 Body of Evidence

Body of Evidence

\- _Dated 1984 -_

 _Severus,_

 _I do not forgive you._

 _But I have been thinking. You have been fair with me during our last meeting, even when you believed that your confession would condemn you to Azkaban for good. It is true that you deserved something in return. That has been my conclusion, yet I still could not move myself to action all this time._

 _Do you remember the child you threw at me that day? He survived, as you have no doubt already found out. When I heard that Hippocrates had been sorted into Slytherin, I had some serious concerns. I thought that you would want to claim your pound of flesh in turn, from him and Homer's daughter. But my son has written to me and described you as - in his own words - "strange but not usually unpleasant, and at times helpful"._

 _Have you changed? Many people do not believe that a Death Eater can ever reform. Yet I have never marked you as Death Eater material in the first place. Certainly you had an obsession with Dark Magic then, but many children do at that age and I have had my own phase of experimentation. So let us say that your Death Eater days were also a phase, that you returned to sense in the end, and spied on them for the big D. That you have indeed reformed, and that the information you passed saved many families from the fate mine experienced. Let us say that you had to destroy my life to maintain your cover. I suppose I could have forgiven you for that. Those were the possibilities that I had accepted (and Amelia had accepted) when I took up the Auror's duties during those dark days._

 _But that is not true. From the dates big D provided, you had only turned after. So I do not forgive you for an act of wanton destruction. But I will square our account and offer you information for information. Do not write back to me. I will be leaving shortly for another assignment. Even if not, I will not reply._

 _By now, the story of Mr V's demise would be old story, so I will not offer what you had requested. Instead, here is something else that will interest you._

 _You were arrested the morning after Mr V fell. That very afternoon, Big D visited the Auror's Office and had a lengthy meeting with the Head Auror. Between then and the inquiry that cleared you almost two months after, Big D visited the Auror's Office three more times. He met not with the Head Auror, but the officers in charge of your interrogation._

 _Cursed with excessive curiosity, and unfortunately trained in the methods of investigation, I could not help but notice the numerous anomalies in your case. Not to mention that I had quite the personal interest in your case._

 _Why was the inquiry held so late, when other accused Death Eaters were quickly brought before the Ministry panel and the Wizengamot within a week? After all, speed was supposed to be of essence to expose the Death Eater hierarchy before it went to ground._

 _If the big D could clear you that easily with one testimony, as he did later during the inquiry, and the delay was indeed a pure process issue, why did he not do it during his first meeting with the Head Auror? If he had made that clear, why were you put through the interrogation process? Then you would simply have been detained in quite comfortable conditions until formally released._

 _Why did the big D meet multiple times with the officers in charge of your interrogation, who so coincidentally happened to be members of his so-called Order of the Phoenix? They were not usually in charge of interrogation, so why were they tasked to interrogate you?_

 _Many questions, but I stopped short of spying on my own colleagues. We must trust each other if the Office was not to fall apart. Still I played a trick. At the last meeting, I managed to walk in on the big D and his pets at the most inopportune time._

 _"I want him pliant, but not broken," the big D said as I walked in. Big D and my colleagues broke off their conversation immediately when I entered the office, of course. I feigned surprised and exited, but I had heard enough._

 _Is that enough for you too? You are a smart man, and I think you can draw your own conclusions. We snakes must stick together, after all._

 _Arctinus Smethwyck_


	8. 2-4 All the King's Men

All the King's men

 _\- 1991, Hogwarts -_

The door to the Slytherin office was open. Torches along the dungeon corridor stretched their fingers of bilious green light towards the interior of the unlit office. Their faint caresses traced the dim outlines of the furniture within, and even distinguished amongst them an oddly phosphorescent human form; the office was occupied. Albus Dumbledore lingered for a moment at the doorway. His tall thin figure cast a long shadow. It touched the form of the occupant within, who stirred and seemed to look up.

Dumbledore stepped into the room. "Ah, there you are, Severus. We missed you on graduation night. When you didn't turn up for yesterday's dinner either, I was concerned."

He lifted his wand. Tiny golden sparks of light flew from its tip. They lifted into the air, circled the air, and finally settled on lanterns along the walls. There they grew into little round nodules that fill the room with a gentle glow. Severus Snape was seated behind his desk, behind a half-constructed celestial model and a box of luminescent studs. Other objects both banal and unusual covered the desk, including a drinking bird, a flobberworm massage brush (in bright bold letters on the box), a spray bottle of pixie repellent, a "Stir-O-Matic" (box label), a flat thin parcel, and a surprisingly large number of mugs, hourglasses and ladles.

"Bah!" Snape flicked his wand. The lanterns flared white and entire room was lit in a strong, sterile blaze. Dumbledore's long magenta robe with its scarlet trim looked spectacularly garish beneath the new lighting. Snape's sallow complexion looked more sickly than usual.

Snape turned his attention back to the celestial model. Using the tip of his wand, he picked up another stud and maneuvered it into the correct position. Dumbledore noted with displeasure that Snape was using his working wand instead of his teaching wand. The Headmaster considered the wand's behaviour, especially its sometimes aberrant responses, to be an indicator of its fundamentally malignant nature. Its dark carmine was also deeply unnatural for the material, which he did not like in the first place, and his speculations on the source of that abnormal coloration increased his dislike of the wand.

"Why are you using that thing?" Dumbledore demanded.

Snape scowled and stuck the wand inside his robes, replacing it with the holly and phoenix feather wand that the two of them had picked out when he had joined the staff. Other than that, he made no other response to Dumbledore. He picked up a stud with the new wand, studied the star chart on the table, and set it in place.

"What are you doing, Severus?"

"Building a celestial model."

Dumbledore strolled up to the desk, looking through the the bric-a-brac spread out on top. "Flobberworm massage brush," he read out in bemusement, "clears pore blockages, removes brown-heads, and keeps your flobberworm happy. A happy flobberworm is a productive flobberworm."

"Student gifts. Cupboard ran out of space." Snape snorted. "Every student fancies his gift to be the unique snowflake. Well, in the case of the flobberworm massage brush... Melinda Blake, class of eighty-nine, now a professional flobberworm farmer - and massager."

"Is that what you've been doing the past day?"

"Massaging flobberworms? No. Organising, yes. Remembering. Thinking." Snape put another stud in place.

"By the way, young Mr Smethwyck asked me to pass a message to you." Dumbledore casually pulled out a letter and handed it over.

"Thank you." Snape took the proffered letter and gave it a perfunctory glance, then stuck it into one of the mugs. He returned to the celestial model and released a few clips on it.

Dumbledore stood at the desk, stroking his long silvery beard thoughtfully.

"Yes, Headmaster? Do you need me to massage you?" Snape asked pleasantly.

"The flobberworm in me says no," Dumbledore replied hastily. He continued stroking his beard. "Don't you want to see what's in the letter, Severus?"

"How mischievous of you to ask me this, Headmaster." Snape adjusted a knob at the base of the model. The sphere rotated slightly, revealing a new stretch of sky.

"Let's discuss Hippocrates Smethwyck."

"Discuss what? Hippy doesn't address his letters to me in an illegible scrawl, _to Severus Snape_. He doesn't miss his appointments, or send notes like this if he couldn't make it, certainly not through you." He clipped the globe in place.

"Have you been waiting all this time?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"Not currently. You and I, we're good. Please leave if you've no further business." Snape studied the star chart carefully, marking out the new sector in chalk.

Dumbledore sat himself on a chair before the desk. He stretched out his arm and placed a spotted and knobbly-knuckled hand on the star chart, covering the newly marked out sector. "Look at me, Severus."

"I'm not in the mood for this, Dumbledore!"

"Look at me," Dumbledore repeated firmly.

Snape looked up. His bloodshot eyes met Dumbledore's pale-blue ones.

"And still I'm in control," Snape said evenly. "You must stop testing me like this, Headmaster. It speaks of a lack of trust. Do you trust me? No, don't answer that yet."

He picked up his wand and pointed it at a drawer. There was a series of clicks from within. Snape opened the drawer and a piece of grey stationery zipped into his hand. The cheap ink that covered the much-folded page had started to brown with age. He offered it to Dumbledore, who lifted his half-moon glasses, unfolded the letter and began to read.

After a while, He lowered the page and returned his glasses to his nose. The discomfort on his face was apparent when he addressed Snape. "But Arctinus sent you this seven years ago."

"Do you want to know what I think?"

Dumbledore nodded silently, his face grave.

"Let me think like Albus Dumbledore. I have extracted Severus Snape's services in exchange for Lily Potter's continued safety, a golden goose that never stops laying. Now the woman is dead. How do I retain those services? First, let me buy time to plan. I have members of my Order who are Aurors. They shall swoop in and arrest the man first, before he finds out." Snape smiled coldly. "It's interesting that the Aurors who'd arrested him were the very one who should've known better. Or did Dumbledore think him so stupid as to not notice?"

"Now, Albus Dumbledore has the leisure to plot. Let me plot. Perhaps I can change the terms of our exchange. The woman's son remains, the crux of the whole war. But the man doesn't care for the baby, so how do I proceed? I'll keep him ignorant in a little Azkaban cell. Under the guise of interrogation, I'll break him down, weaken him, and spring Lily's death upon him. When he's weakest, I'll confuse him and extract the needed promise from him."

Dumbledore's grave expression grew saddened. He shook his head. "I admit that had been my plan, but when I saw the state you were in, I grew weak and changed my mind."

"Really?" Snape scoffed. "It's good that Dumbledore went ahead with the plan or similar anyway, for Snape remains alive to have this conversation today. Now, I, Dumbledore, have a new problem. So far, I've had my man neatly under my thumb. But I suspect he's grown too close to one of his students. But the student's graduating. What if he pulls my servant away and I lose control?"

"It's not the way you think, Severus!" Dumbledore said quickly. "I know you care for Hippy, but it's not fair to him."

"Then it's also not the way you think," Snape said harshly, "Care for him? Hah! I would in fact thank you for making things clear, if you weren't so insufferably high-handed."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.

"One doesn't build a house on a foundation of sand," Snape said impatiently, "the kid is irrelevant. Your actions aren't. You've always wanted me to talk. Now that I'm talking, will you let me finish speaking?"

"Go on, Severus."

"You're useful to me. Your power rivals the Dark Lord's, yet yours is the greater intellect. Where He has slowly regressed to brutality, you've grown even more conniving and manipulative with each battle. I don't like you, but you're my best bet to defeat Him and keep Lily's son alive."

"Not exactly a flattering description," Dumbledore murmured dryly.

" _Similia similibus curantur_." Snape gnashed his teeth and glared fiercely at Dumbledore. "I hate children. I hate teaching children. Above all, I hate teaching children like Hippy Smethwyck. When I see them, I see the red in my ledger, and it runs very red indeed. I can only pay and pay, but I only have one life to pay with. I can never finish paying, never turn my account black again. Hah! To face them every day... How can you understand this, the very horror of it?"

"Perhaps better than you think," said Dumbledore quietly. "Tell me, Severus, have you felt this way all along?"

Snape frowned thoughtfully. "No, not initially. I'm not sure when it started. Sometimes the students remind me - of when I was young. I wonder why I did the things I did, if it could have turned out differently -" his lips tightened grimly "- no matter, too late now. I can only move forward."

Dumbledore sighed. "I wish you've told me this earlier. So many of our unpleasant interactions could have been avoided."

"Far easier to continue with the status quo. But now you must also choose. Continue insulting me with your meddling, interrogations, and ineffectual Legilimancy, or believe my words as they stand. Lily's son starts school this fall. If you can't, then all our endeavours are doomed. Do you trust me?"

"Yes. I trust you." Dumbledore offered his hand solemnly. They shook hands.

The Headmaster stood up. "Turn up for dinner tonight, Severus. We've missed you. By the way," he said conversationally, "is this how you handled Voldemort too?"

A ghost of a smile touched Snape's lips. "Different strokes for different folks, Headmaster."

When Dumbledore had left, Snape opened the boy's letter.

 _I apologise for missing our appointment. It has come to my attention that your past involvement in my family has not been insubstantial. It would be best if we no longer keep company. - Hippocrates Smethwyck_

Snape sat looking at the letter for a long time. The handwriting was familiar, but the letters were badly formed, and at points almost looked like the scrawl of someone illiterate. Blotches of ink showed interrupted writing at spots.

A clear blotch joined its inked cousins, then more came. They darkened the page and blurred the ink where they fell, but could not erase the written words.

At length Snape stood up. He picked up the unopened parcel from the desk, slid it into the space he had made for it, and shut the cupboard doors.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

 _\- 1995, St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries -_

"I'm going to hate the taste of blood-replenishing potions for the rest of my life," groaned the tall, red-haired patient. He grimaced, and took another sip from the steaming cup he held in his good hand.

"You're extremely lucky to be even alive, sir. I'm working on the antidote, but there's a chance there might be none." The healer tapped the bandages on the patient's chest with his wand at various spots and made notes on his clipboard.

"You mean I have to drink this for the rest of my life?" The patient groaned in dismay.

"No, I meant there's a chance you might have to. But from my tests I'm confident now. We'll try a derivative of basilisk venom next."

"What! You're going to feed me basilisk venom?"

"No, processed, not raw."

"No way! That doesn't sound like a good idea."

The healer regarded his patient with a detached gaze. "Mm. As you wish, sir. The Ministry has a fund for those injured in the line of duty. It could offset the considerable cost of engaging a brewing company, since I can't do it forever. We could still give you a semblance of normal life by going back to Pye's stitches. Unicorn tail hair for thread this time, with drains for the blood. You'll have to carry a little drainage bag around forever, though. "

"So I'll become a showcase of Muggle-based technomancy?" the patient enthused. A maniacal glow suffused his face. "When can we do it?"

"Arthur!" the woman seated besides the patient screamed in exasperation. The healer blinked in disbelief and looked stunned by the patient's happy expression.

"Umm... I recommend ... you try the derivative first." The healer recovered from his shock and smiled reassuringly. "You'll be all right, sir. Charlie would never forgive me if I let any harm come to you."

"You know Charlie?"

"Of course, same year at Hogwarts. Why, my wife was in the Quidditch team with him. Kept trying though they kept losing. Until Harry Potter." The healer pounded a fist on his thigh. "You should hear how my wife's cousin - the previous Keeper - was enthusing about Mr. Potter during Christmas dinner. Your Ron's doing well as the current Keeper, I heard."

The patient was beaming and nodding. "We finally got the cup back from Slytherin!"

"Anyway, Charlie still sends us samples from Romania. Takes a lot of courage to face dragons every day. It's not easy, I know." He placed a hand on Arthur Weasley's good shoulder. "We're all friends here, Mr. Weasley. We can't let a dirty Dark Magic serpent defeat us that easily. We have to keep trying."

The patient frowned. "I supposed you're right," he said reluctantly, "let's try your, er, new antidote then."

"Great. I'll start working on the derivative after I finish your potion supply for tomorrow. You're truly the perfect patient." The healer was now grinning widely. His pale eyes gleamed with an overenthusiatic light. "Speaking of which, I've to go do the second phase of the brewing. The derivative will take some time, so we'll maintain your current regime until then."

"Thank you, we'll beat this yet." Despite his words, the patient looked nervous. "By the way - out of curiosity - isn't basilisk venom deadly?"

"To quote the great Paracelsus, _sola dosis facit venenum_. The _materia_ in raw form matters less than what one refines it into, and what use one makes of it." The healer laughed quietly to himself. "Now then, Mr Weasley, I really have to go before your potion over-ripens!"

After the healer had rushed off, the patient turned back to his bemused wife. "I told you he's weird," he said. "I mean in a good way, but weird."


End file.
